A Bewitching Governess

by Patricia Rice

  Cardboard things. Olivia almost snorted. Agnes was a whist fanatic.

  The innocent-looking lady produced a jack of hearts from the floor and held it up in front of her near-sighted eyes. The back had been stamped with a dirty boot.

  Olivia had seen Glengarry palm the card and had wondered his intent. Agnes had foiled his marking. The scoundrel’s aura grew muddier.

  Raking in the jackpot, Olivia asked pleasantly, “New cards, gentlemen? Dirty ones are no fun.” She gestured for Jameson to bring the basket.

  “What was that noise earlier? It disturbed my concentration,” Hargreaves said querulously, tossing his cards in her direction to be exchanged. He glanced around. “Where’s Blair?”

  Drew took the opportunity to fold his hand and scoop up his few coins. “I need to take a break, stretch my legs. Did you need Simon for anything? I’ll look for him.”

  Olivia assumed Drew knew something he wasn’t telling her. She rubbed the ache forming behind her temple. Her task was here, but her heart was back at the house, checking on the children, undressing for bed, and foolishly hoping Simon would join her.

  She thought in a few more rounds, Glengarry and Ramsay would have to concede. They had no coins, and their vouchers were mounting. She had the Hall in the palm of her hands. She couldn’t back out now, when success was in her grasp.

  A woman screamed hysterically outside.

  Heart in throat, not opening the new deck, Olivia sought Simon. She found him with drink in hand, drunkenly pounding the young schoolteacher on the back. As she watched, he shoved Mr. Napier toward the kitchen, where Phoebe and the photographer were also headed.

  Hadn’t he heard the cry? How could he be drunk at a time like this?

  That’s when she froze—he wouldn’t be. He was tamping down his energy. Something was very wrong.

  Simon shouted merrily, raised his glass, and ordered drinks all around. As the staff hastened to carry bottles from uplifted glass to glass, the crowd subtly shifted. She couldn’t tell who was where. A pulse in her head throbbed.

  Dr. Dare slipped into Drew’s empty chair. “I’d like to try a hand, if I may.”

  Olivia handed the new deck to Hargreaves. She had to shut down her inner eye and rest her pounding head until the cards were dealt. She tried to concentrate on the hand she was given, but she kept watching the eddying crowd out of the corner of her eye. She thought she heard another scream, angrier this time, but Simon shouted again, covering it up.

  Covering it up. What was he covering up? What was happening?

  Hargreaves signaled that he had good cards. Hers were worthless. Dr. Dare didn’t know the signals. Bluffing, Olivia threw in her coins to raise the pot. The sooner they finished this, the better.

  Glengarry and Ramsay called for pens again, wrote more vouchers, and drew new cards.

  Olivia had to open her inner eye to see whether they really had hands strong enough to justify their wagers. Instinct said they did not, and their auras did not reflect hope. In fact, their colors grew muddier by the minute. Uneasy, she waited out another round. Glengarry threw in what appeared to be one of Hargreaves’ old vouchers, forcing the viscount to raise the stakes higher.

  That’s when she realized Ramsay was adding liquor from his flask to the young viscount’s tankard. How did she warn him? How often had the scoundrel concealed that doctored flask in his palm and passed it over the tankard? Was Hargreaves too drunk to know what he was doing? She hadn’t seen sign of it. . .

  “I call,” the viscount announced, triumphantly spreading his winning cards on the table and knocking over his tankard at the same time.

  Ramsay leaped up. “You’re cheating!” he shouted.

  Glengarry stood with more grace and pulled a derringer from his pocket. He reached for the pot. “We don’t play with cheats.”

  Trusting Olivia to take care of herself, not wanting to disrupt the card players, Simon discreetly directed his troops. While he shouted and poured whisky, he sent Drew and the deputy—and Phoebe, who couldn’t be stopped—to the screams outside. He ordered his burly steward and several of the younger men to check on the miners and tenants he’d left defending the house, reducing the number of guards around Olivia and the children.

  Gut churning, Simon took up Hill’s position at the foot of the stairs. The screams had stopped. Phoebe hadn’t returned.

  Instead, the harlot Lily Brown materialized in the kitchen entrance—wielding his dirk?

  Before Simon could shout a warning, Drew and the deputy entered behind her, holding a struggling bull of a man. Simon recognized Bart, the tavern owner who had dragged Lily away from church.

  Attempting to look nonchalant when his energies were reaching whirlwind proportions, Simon stomped over to join them, indicating with his head that Drew take his place at the stairs. Phoebe emerged from the kitchen in time to see his gesture and slipped over to take the guard post in place of Drew. Simon was starting to appreciate the annoying female.

  Without effort, he snatched the dirk from Lily’s hand. She looked frozen in fear. Tall, lanky, the woe of a lifetime carved into her face, the maid was still handsome, just terrified.

  “Explain,” he demanded.

  Lily said nothing. The deputy spoke for her. “Bart was hiding out back. He’d been promised he’d have Mrs. Brown back if he’d rush in with a pistol when Ramsay gave the signal. Mrs. Brown prevented him from entering.”

  The earlier shouts from the table—the wretched bastards had done that deliberately. They must be losing.

  Simon glanced over Lily’s shoulder and brandished his dirk at the tavern bastard. Bart stopped struggling. “What part of him would ye like diced, Mrs. Brown?” Simon asked cordially, his blood boiling.

  Lily hesitated, still looking terrified. “Could he be locked away where he can’t hurt the girls anymore?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Mackle, what do you think? I think Mrs. Brown and a few others might testify to assault.” Simon spun the dirk but couldn’t perform his usual hand-to-hand threat with a bottle in his grip.

  “We witnessed trespassing, assault, and resisting arrest,” the deputy said. “I’ll lock him up tonight, and we’ll investigate any other charges in the morning.” He studied the front of the room with concern. “Looks like we have a problem.”

  Simon had to trust that Olivia had any trouble in hand, even though the top of his head was about to blow off.

  With a cold draft blowing down his neck, he fought a frisson of fear. “Lock Bart in the pantry,” he ordered, handing the dirk back to Lily. “Thank you for defending us. If you know how to use this, stand outside the pantry and slice off whatever you can reach if he tries to escape.”

  Round-eyed, Lily curtsied. “I know how to use it, sir.”

  In front, a gun barked and shouts rang out.

  Heart cracking open, Simon handed off his bottle, bunched his fists, and swung around.

  Glengarry held a smoking pistol in an upraised hand, while Dr. Dare pulled Olivia away from the table. She appeared furious but unharmed by whatever argument ensued.

  With a smirk of satisfaction, Viscount Hargreaves slammed his tankard into Ramsay’s nose, knocking him backward.

  To hell with letting Olivia take care of herself. Simon started for the front of the room, but a crowd had inevitably gathered, blocking his view. Furiously, he shoved into the milling throng. Over their heads, he watched Glengarry snatch at the gold on the table.

  “They’re cheating,” the lying scoundrel shouted. “Sir Harvey, stand as our witness! Hargreaves just assaulted us.”

  “You reprehensible toad, Hargreaves won fair and square. You’re the one who drew a pistol.” Olivia brushed past Dare to smack at Glengarry’s empty derringer with her coin purse.

  She reached for the vouchers on the table. The estate agent attempted to snatch them back, knocking over the candle.

  Only as the candle flame caught fire on the table did Simon realize the overhead lamp had been punctured by
the bullet and leaked a steady stream of oil. Shouting, he flung grown men out of his path.

  Before he could reach Olivia, her billowing skirt caught fire.

  Dying inside, Simon roared so loudly the rafters rattled and the crowd parted.

  The wind in his head blotted out all rational thought but not the searing agony of watching Olivia engulfed in flame.

  The table blew away as if he’d flung it. The licking flames swept toward Glengarry. As his suit caught fire, the handsome estate agent shrieked like a banshee.

  Fighting the wind, the professor rushed to the grate to pick up a scuttle of ash.

  Free of the onlookers at last, Simon ripped at Olivia’s flaming skirts with his bare hands. The furious wind swirled, dousing the lamps. Women screamed as the room went dark.

  Cradling Olivia, crooning mo ghràdh, mo chridhe, Simon tossed the flaming silk in Dare’s direction. The good doctor doused it with ash.

  In the dark chaos of shouts and stampeding feet, Olivia clung to Simon, weeping. His Olivia never cried. Panicking, he kissed her wet cheeks. “Where are you hurt? I’ll call for your healer. I’ll carry you—”

  She shook her head. “My head pounds. I can’t watch any more. Glengarry is heading for the door. Stop him.”

  Simon could see nothing but the flaming table the mob was dousing with water. Refusing to let Olivia go, he sent the wind crashing toward the door.

  He sent the wind.

  Glengarry screamed louder. Simon heard a thud. The door didn’t open.

  A lamp gleamed. And another.

  “You ruined my photograph,” an unfamiliar female voice scolded. “Those flames were dancing weirdly, and you doused them before I could take a shot!”

  “Pardon me for saving your fool neck,” a male voice rumbled—Dare.

  “Stop Glengarry,” Simon shouted into the confusion. “Where’s Ramsay?”

  “Out cold,” Hargreaves replied in satisfaction. “If someone will check his pockets, I think you’ll find more marked cards.”

  In Simon’s arms, Olivia sniffled, almost as if she were chuckling. His pulse hadn’t stopped racing, and she was chuckling? As lights came on, he scanned the room for danger. Finding none, he glanced down at her, relieved that she could laugh.

  He’d almost lost her, as he’d lost Letitia.

  But he hadn’t. She was alive and laughing, and he was the dunderhead in paralysis. Rabbit, she wasn’t.

  Soot dirtied her creamy cheek, and her fancy hairpiece had fallen out, leaving a dangling gold curl, but he couldn’t tell if she was unhurt.

  “Hargreaves planted the marked cards in Ramsay’s pocket, in expectation of this scenario,” she whispered in explanation. “Go, check on the aunts. They’re dangerous when they’re quiet.”

  Simon didn’t want to let her go. He didn’t dare tell her he needed to check on the children first because she didn’t know they were here.

  And then the brats ran screaming down the stairs, trailing a barking dog and squalling cats. Simon didn’t think his exhausted heart could take any more frights.

  “Phoebe,” Olivia said with a sigh of exasperation at the fleeing animals. “What on earth are the children doing here?”

  Thirty-three

  Mo ghràdh, mo chridhe. Simon had called her my sweetheart before, but never my love, never my heart. Olivia wept inside for that alone, covering up her despair with foolishness. She longed to be the heart he swore he’d lost.

  As much as she yearned to linger in Simon’s brawny arms, she couldn’t allow herself that weakness. What, by all that was holy, were the children doing here? With the animals? And the nursemaids? And Lily, arriving from the kitchen and brandishing a. . . dirk?

  Brushing at her singed petticoat with her stinging hands, accepting a shawl one of the aunts draped around her, Olivia stood. Still holding her waist, Simon stood also, but she knew him now. He wasn’t a sentimental man. He was a warrior who protected his own. She wanted to smack him for not telling her about the children. He simply wanted to charge into battle.

  She would never ever understand their differences, but she could respect them. For now. His concern had melted her heart.

  She kissed his cheek. “Go. Arrest people. Let me tend the children.”

  Before he could protest, she pulled away to scoop up Evie and crouch down so the others could crowd around her. “What is wrong, dear hearts? Is anyone hurt?”

  “Mama passed!” Cat cried, then promptly broke into tears.

  Clare hugged her twin, her own eyes wet with grief. Evie patted her back.

  Mama passed? Letitia’s spirit had moved on to the next world? What did that mean for. . .

  “Bugsly ran off and the kittens did too,” Enoch said in suspicion, glancing around—rightly so. Fleeing animals had the earmark of her interfering cousin.

  “We saw fire,” Aloysius added worriedly. “We’re supposed to run out of the house if there’s a fire.”

  Olivia glanced guiltily at the charred table. Dr. Dare and the others had suffocated the flames, but the night’s winnings had gone up in smoke, the bits that weren’t coins, at least.

  “That was very smart of you,” she assured them.

  She glanced up at the worried nursemaids. She had no idea why everyone was here instead of at home in bed, but that would wait. “Are you all right?” She cast Lily’s dirk an uncertain look. The maid hastily hid it behind her skirt.

  “Evie started shouting for you when the dog ran, and the twins became excited, and the boys said they heard shots, and. . .” Holding Lily’s infant, Daisy bobbed a curtsy. “I apologize. We let our fears run away with us.”

  “Under the circumstances, that’s perfectly reasonable,” Olivia said dryly. She hugged the children, then pointed at the stairs. “Everything is fine, but we have some cleaning up to do. Please go upstairs and try to sleep.”

  The boys were avidly watching Deputy Mackle and others tie up the injured villains. She caught their shoulders and spun them around. “We’ll talk in the morning. Go. Take your pets with you.”

  Lady Gertrude finally stepped in, taking the youngest and shooing the others forward. She ran a school, after all, even if she preferred the role of grande dame.

  After the children departed, Phoebe finally returned, carrying one of the kittens. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t want anyone going up in flames, so I thought it best to send the nursery down here.”

  “By chasing animals? Effective. Will someone please explain why they’re even here?” Olivia watched as the nursemaids—and Lily—climbed the stairs, but not Lady Gertrude. She sailed for the kitchen, ancient panniers swaying.

  Phoebe took Olivia’s elbow and steered her toward the kitchen too. Olivia threw a last lingering glance over her shoulder to Simon. In his tailored black suit, he looked the part of distinguished leader consulting with Sir Harvey and the other gentlemen present. Where were Drew and Mr. Hill? Hadn’t there been more men. . . ?

  Phoebe placed a hand in the square of Olivia’s back and shoved her onward.

  “I don’t know if Azmin captured anything on her film. She’s developing the images now. But with Drew and Dr. Dare watching, I’m sure you have witnesses.” Phoebe led her into the kitchen, where Emma and the aunts waited. Had they all known the children were upstairs?

  “Mr. Blair’s home is fine,” Lady Agnes declared, handing Olivia a cup of tea. “His men followed orders. I can feel their satisfaction.”

  Bewildered, Olivia sipped her. . . it wasn’t tea, but it settled her nerves. “The house?”

  Lady Agnes patted her shoulder and produced a cream to rub on Olivia’s red palms.

  Mary Willingham awkwardly offered a long plaid for Olivia to wrap in. The reverend’s daughter had been watching a card game? The wool wasn’t meant to drape over petticoats, but Olivia gratefully accepted the warmth.

  “Drew and Simon believe the Association sent arsonists to the house,” Phoebe explained in her usual brisk manner. “Apparently Aunt Agn
es is reading the cosmos to tell us the villains failed.”

  Olivia grabbed a kitchen chair to steady herself. Discovering her knees were weak, she abruptly sat down. “Simon’s house? His beautiful home? They meant to burn it? And he didn’t tell me?”

  He hadn’t trusted her to know the children had been in danger? Where was the respect she’d offered him?

  And her heart answered—he respected her needs enough to risk his own home to be with her.

  While Deputy Mackle searched Glengarry and Ramsay, emptying out marked cards and lead coins, Jameson stiffly held out the coin purse Simon had given to Olivia earlier.

  “I believe we have gathered them all, sir. I do not know how they were distributed.”

  Olivia’s half-clothed and hungry staff had gathered and returned all his scattered gold? Simon was too stunned to speak. Hargreaves’ shout prevented the need to do so.

  “All the vouchers and cards burned! I can’t prove I won the Hall!”

  To Simon’s immense surprise, Sir Harvey stepped forward, holding out burned scraps of paper. “I believe at least one of these belongs to you, Hargreaves. There is a crest on it.”

  Simon wished Drew and Dare were here, but they’d ridden back to the house to restore order. He gestured at the deputy and several of the men he knew from the village. “Where’s the photographer?”

  Miss Dougall promptly appeared at his elbow, carrying her load of equipment. “I’m here, sir. Tell me what you need.”

  “I don’t suppose you took a photograph of the viscount’s winning hand?” Simon asked.

  Her brown cheeks bunched into a cherub’s smile. “I did, sir. I wish we could reproduce color, but the cards with pretty people on them will show up well.”

  There was one bit of evidence if it came to a court battle. He glanced around at the circle of men. “I want everyone to witness the scrap Sir Harvey found. Hargreaves, were your vouchers in play?”

  The viscount warily regarded the scrap in Sir Harvey’s hand. “Glengarry played all my vouchers on that last hand. They were written on Hargreaves stationery, back before we ran out. Glengarry and Ramsay were writing their vouchers on pages they’d ripped from books.”